Grass stains were all over my hands at 7:15 in the evening.
The shadows of the fence looked like jail iron and I fell back on the prickly green.
I felt like I was dying as I was descending.
I saw circles floating across my eyes into the blue, thinking about humble people who wrote poems and holy people who didn't.
Four minutes passed and my hands talked back to me in the way that I never could.
The leaves of a nearby tree rustled too loudly for me, but I didn't want to move.
Stop being symbolic, I told myself. It never works if you try.
The products of nature and other life spun around the sun with me.
Ivy crawled up my arms and over my eyelashes.
Another five minutes passed and it felt like five years. I'm sure it was.
My hands lay outstretched and immobile.
Love walked around me in decades, admiring rocky forms and other figures.
I couldn't bring myself to smile, but I think they knew what I stood for.
The sun was falling, fast (Or was it me?) and easily.
I suddenly wished to see the ocean.
I had never been near, though I spent my lifetime watching fountains and rain.
I wanted to sink past the past and become part of it.
Endless moments behind shadow bars, to me, were enough.
After a hundred years of stony emotion, I was ready to crumble into sand and dissolve into places I had never been.
But that did not mean that I could.
Really, nobody thinks of what the wishes of statues are.
Not that I could speak them anyway.